


Textbook

by okapi



Series: The Fucking Machine 'verse [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fucking Machines, Hand Jobs, Kinktober 2019, Lapdance, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega John Watson, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Size Difference, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-24 03:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20900708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Secondary Gender Studies, Issues, Developments, and Challenges in Estrusis due for an update. Time to call The Fucking Machine (and John).Omegaverse. PWP. Alpha Sherlock/Omega John. For Kinktober 2019.





	1. Missionary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get an offer they can't refuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Kinktober 2019 Day 8: Sex Work

“Brexit sucks,” muttered Sherlock as he gazed out the window upon the noon-day bustle of Baker Street.

John hummed. “It’s nearly dried up international business.”

“Not to mention,” added Sherlock, “its withering effect on domestic orders.”

“Anxious, frustrated people do not spend their disposable income on sophisticated sex toys.”

“Nor do they commit interesting crimes! Or want them solved!” wailed Sherlock. “So, where does that leave us?”

John set the paper that was in his hand on the desk and joined Sherlock at the window. “Stamford’s offer?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.” Sherlock glanced at the paper on the desk, then back at the street below. “I suppose like all of its kind _Secondary Gender Studies, Issues, Developments, and Challenges in Estrus_ has to be updated sometime.”

“And you were the model for the photographs in the current edition.”

“Naturally,” said Sherlock. “They wanted the biggest and the best.”

“Well,” John glanced at the paper, too. “It’s ten positions, all of which would I can easily imagine occurring at least once during the course a normal heat. I mean, even number nine isn’t anything far-fetched.”

“No,” agreed Sherlock. “But,” he sighed, “it is sex work, John. Sex for money. Or rather sex for photographs for money. I’ve done it, but you haven’t. Yet.”

There was a long silence, then John nodded. “But it is an awful lot of money, Sherlock.”

Sherlock chuckled. “It is, isn’t it? Rather obscene.”

John stepped behind Sherlock and rested his forehead on Sherlock’s back, right between his shoulder blades.

They stood like that for a few breaths then Sherlock said,

“You’re getting aroused just thinking about it, aren’t you? So ripe-smelling and your heat’s a fortnight away!”

“I’m not going to apologise for wanting to have sex with you, Sherlock, well-paid, biological imperative, or just because you’re gorgeous and brilliant and hung like donkey and I love you beyond reason.”

“Then I’ll tell Stamford ‘yes.’”

“Sherlock?” John curled his arms ‘round Sherlock’s waist.

“Hmm?”

“Could we, oh, I don’t know, have some fun with it? I mean, well, you’re right. It’s been rather boring and depressing ‘round here of late, and this is the first time in a while that I’m looking forward to something.”

“What did you have in mind?”

* * *

What John had in mind, as Sherlock learned two weeks later, was waltzing into The Ritz looking like a million pounds.

Sherlock got to his feet and noticed not a few heads turn as John approached him with an outstretched hand.

“Captain Watson?”

John smiled. “Mister Holmes.”

“Please.” Sherlock indicated the seat in front of him.

They both settled and looked at one another.

Sherlock had taken great pains to look his best as well. He crossed his legs.

“So, your heat is soon?” As if he couldn’t tell by the luscious aroma that enveloped John.

“Yes,” said John. “And I’m in the market for an Alpha stud.”

“I can say, without arrogance, Captain, there is no Alpha who can meet your needs better than I can.”

“That’s quite a statement,” said John, leaning back and crossing his arm over his chest. “What can you offer?”

“Safety first. I don’t lose my head, and don’t allow you to lose yours either. Then there’s my philosophy that I’m not just relieving your distress, I’m enhancing your pleasure.”

“By?”

“By tending to the whole of you and not just the orifice you’re paying me to fill, which means,” he leaned forward and dropped his voice, “touching you, licking you, talking to you, and stimulating you in a myriad of ways in addition to the requisite fucking. But, in case you are wondering about the latter, I am, as they say, hung like the proverbial horse, and the ride, I assure you, is like none you’ve had before. I will stretch you and fill you beautifully for the duration of your heat. Upon demand. Satisfaction guaranteed.”

Sherlock was rewarded by the dilation of John’s pupils and restless shifting in his seat.

Then John licked his lips and smiled, and Sherlock was reminded that two were playing this game. He went just a bit mad with lust when John’s gaze roamed all over him, then settled between his legs.

When John looked him in the eye, he whispered,

“You make an impressive case, Mister Holmes, and if I may be so bold—”

“You may.”

“—cut an impressive figure. But I’m a simple Omega at the end of the day, and I very much want a look at the goods I’m buying.”

“Of course.” Sherlock got to his feet. “Follow me.”

* * *

They said nothing on the lift ride up. John knew his scent must be growing stronger. He was cutting it very close, but he was enjoying himself very much. And Sherlock didn’t seem to mind the roleplay.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Sherlock was opening his trousers.

John was gratified to see he was half hard. He remembered the first time he’d seen Sherlock’s prick and tried to channel that abject awe.

It wasn’t difficult.

“That is a very large prick, Mister Holmes.”

“Yes, it will brush places inside you, Captain—”

“All of them, I imagine,” said John, his voice betraying strain and excitement.

Sherlock smiled. “Just so.”

“Well, I think you’re worth every bit of your asking price,” said John quickly. His skin was beginning to itch. “Would you like me to return the favour? Show you—”

“A kind offer, Captain, but I am only human. Presenting me with your very open, very wet, entirely fuckable cunt at this moment would not be ideal.”

“You couldn’t control yourself?” One part of John was screaming for him to stop the charade and get on to the Centre at once. The other part of him was playing with fire—and liking it. “You’d put that mammoth prick inside me and split me in half? Drench me in your come?”

Sherlock was tucking his prick back in his trousers as best he could and stepping away from John.

The cloud of pheromone must be thick.

“No,” he said. “I’d drop to my knees, put my mouth ‘round your prick, and suckle you ‘til you spent your load down my throat.”

The image conjured in John’s mind snapped the Omega’s last tendril of control.

“Oh, God, Sherlock!”

“Service lift! Now!”

John obeyed.

* * *

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Shhh. We’ll be there in minutes.”

“I shouldn’t have dragged it out.”

“You were having fun. So was I. Don’t apologise.”

“Sherlock, fuck me.”

“Wait. Just a few minutes.”

“I need it now. I need your prick. Can’t you feel it?” John looked down. He was straddling Sherlock in the back of the hired car, the front of his trousers sodden. “Can’t you smell it?”

“I can smell nothing else, John, I assure you. We’ll do this right. We’ll get paid.”

“Says the whore who won’t fuck me?” said John angrily, then he turned pink. “I’m sorry, oh, I’m so sorry, Sherlock…”

“Shhh. I’ve got you.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, John was nude and folded in half on his back with Sherlock’s prick finally sliding into him.

“See? Now how’s that?” asked Sherlock.

John let out a hollow groan of relief, then said, “Textbook.”


	2. Doggy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While they're still fresh, Sherlock & John go for the traditional. POV Sherlock.
> 
> For the 2019 Kinktober Day 12: Rimming/Analingus

“You know, I didn’t even notice them.”

“I did, but I didn’t care.”

Sherlock was lying back on a mountain of pillows at the head of the bed, John was lying atop him, his head pillowed on the left side of Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock was gently stroking John’s hair. John was listening to Sherlock’s heartbeat.

John raised his head and glanced at the spots in the ceiling into which half a dozen thin tentacles with bulbous tips had disappeared as soon as Sherlock had pulled out.

“Curious buggers, but I suppose getting the right angle is important,” mused John. Then he chuckled to himself.

“That’s what I always say,” said Sherlock dryly, reading John’s mind. He kissed the top of John’s head, then drew the bedding ‘round them nice and tight.

John snuggled in closer and sighed contentedly.

“Is it too early to say ‘I love you, Sherlock’?”

“Never. Too early or too late.”

“I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock kissed John’s head again. “John…”

“I know. I know you do.”

“With everything I am, John.”

They fell into a silence. Then Sherlock reached over and tapped the tablet screen that was mounted on the bedside table. “Which should we attempt next?” he asked, scrolling through the list.

“While we’re still fresh, we should give them the traditional.”

“Good plan. And when they’ve got their money shot, I’ll give you the untraditional.”

John snorted and reluctantly untangled himself from Sherlock’s embrace.

* * *

Sherlock ignored the quiet whirring of the cameras descending as he positioned himself kneeling behind John on the bed.

John’s face was in the bedding, his arse was in the air. Sherlock’s prick was hard, John’s cunt, dripping.

Textbook.

Sherlock massaged John’s lower back and buttocks in slow circles until John turned his head and said,

“Ready when you are, love.”

Sherlock heard the smile in John’s tone, and that was all he needed.

He sank his prick into John over and over, gripping John’s hips as he thrust, fast and deep. John’s scent was thick and lovely as ever, and he made beautiful little whimpering noises into the bedding that sounded like Sherlock’s name.

Sherlock came hard and quick, his prick spitting stream after stream into John. It felt good to fuck John like this, a long, hard release without any concern about things like stretching or stamina. The pheromones took care of all of that.

As well as John’s lubrication.

John’s knees were spread wide, and when Sherlock pulled out, John’s cunt gushed thick rivulets which ran down the back of his thighs.

They’d want a shot of that, thought Sherlock. It was obscene. And edifying. Alphas produced much larger quantities of emissions during heat than outside heat.

“Good?” asked John as the whirring was heard once more and the grey strings in Sherlock’s peripheral vision disappeared.

“Perfect,” said Sherlock. “The bees are returning to the hive with their pollen.”

John laughed. “Sex pollen!”

“Naturally.”

Sherlock leaned low and pressed a button on the side of the bed and received a quantity of lubricant dispensed into his cupped hand.

“John…?”

“Yes, of course, you gorgeous bastard.”

“How do you know what I was going to say?” asked Sherlock, realising he sounded just like John every time he deduced John’s thought pattern.

“Because if you’re thinking about anything but tossing me off while you tongue-fuck my arse, you’re mistaken.”

“You’re a beast, you know that?”

“I’m an Omega in heat who wants his Alpha to stop jawing and put that giraffe tongue to good use.”

“Yes, sir.”

Grinning, Sherlock lowered his head to John’s buttocks.

* * *

“Oh, God, yeah. Oh, fuck, love. That’s it, deeper, love, brush the very core of me, yeah?”

Sherlock’s face was smashed into the cleft of John’s arse, and his tongue was being put to good use, namely, making John moan whorishly.

Sherlock used one hand for balance; the other was gripping John’s prick.

As pricks went, John’s was more than healthy: larger and longer than most Omegas’, average for a beta, but, of course, much smaller than Sherlock’s.

Everyone’s prick was smaller than Sherlock’s.

But not everyone’s arse was as sensitive as John’s. Sherlock knew that.

He licked and probed and wiggled, and John shook, almost bounced, with the pleasure of it. He covered Sherlock’s hand, the one that was stroking his prick, with his own hand, guiding Sherlock in pace and pressure.

Many Alphas would have been affronted by this, but not Sherlock. His philosophy had always been, ‘Show me how you want it, and I’ll give it to you just like that.’ After all, it was a point of data, and the more data Sherlock had, the better stud he would be.

“Oh, love. You’re the best. You fuck me so well, just how I need it. Oh, God, Sherlock!”

Praise was always appreciated, too, and John had never been stingy in that department. He was so bloody generous with his affection, regardless of pheromones, it sometimes made Sherlock lightheaded.

Now Sherlock wanted nothing more than to give him the perfect heat. No strain, no anxiety, no distress. Just pleasure. Being filled and fucked just how he wanted.

That was textbook in Sherlock’s mind.

John’s hips bucked away from Sherlock’s mouth as his prick lurched and spent. Then he collapsed on the bed, right in the middle of the mess, but he didn’t seem to notice.

His chest rose and fell, Sherlock rubbed his back and inhaled the intoxicating scent of not just a satisfied Omega, a satisfied John.

He leaned down and kissed John’s shoulder.

John turned his head. “You?”

Sherlock considered.

Did he want John’s tongue in his arse?

“Not yet,” he said. “Not that I…”

John turned onto his back.

“You mean you don’t want this crawling all over you?” 

Sherlock laughed.

So did John. He looked a wreck, covered in drying, sticky spunk.

“A wash, my handsome Omega, for us both, and then I want you in the saddle.”

“Oh, yeah,” said John, grinning wickedly. “Ride ‘im, cowboy!” 


	3. Cowboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a wash, then a couple of rides.
> 
> For the Kinktober 2019 Day 17: Seduction and Orgasm Denial and Masturbation.

The hot spray from the shower pelted John’s back in staccato rhythm. He watched the hand and the flannel it held slide across his torso.

This was not hygiene. Not now. The muck had already been cleaned off. This was…

The word that came to John’s mind was ‘seduction.’

Absurd word, really. No Alpha needed to seduce an Omega in heat, nevertheless…

John’s chest, his stomach, his arms, his shoulders, his back were getting a lathering that was too slow and too delicious to be anything but arousing.

John gave himself over to it, the sight of it, the scent of it, a heavy blend of mixed pheromones trapped in a small, steam-filled cubicle, but mostly, the feel of it, the soapy, rough, sodden square of fabric, moving, moving…

Down to his buttocks, thighs, knees, calves, the tops of his feet, toes.

John looked down at Sherlock, whose eyes, even as he squatted before John, were fixed on the flannel. It was an incongruous picture: that intense stare focused on a trivial task.

Perhaps that was what made John think of seduction. He was always seduced by the ferocity of Sherlock’s gaze, and even more so when it was directed at him.

Finally, the flannel arrived at John’s prick.

John turned so he could be slotted between the cascade of hot water and Sherlock’s body. Sherlock reached around and continued to wash him, or fondle him, depending on the perspective.

Rubbing, rubbing, rubbing.

John’s prick was hard. “Fuck me in here?” he asked, rather more casually than he felt. He needed to be fucked.

Sherlock made a noise, then said, softly, gently, “No.”

John was annoyed. “You could jerk me off in here. That wouldn’t affect the next bit.” John’s orgasm didn’t feature in the list.

Sherlock’s tone didn’t change, nor did he cease his ministrations. He was tending John’s balls and the bit of skin between prick and holes.

“No,” he repeated.

“Orgasm denial,” mused John. “That’s never really been part of our repertoire. Oof. That, that feels really good.”

Sherlock hummed and kept up his steady rubbing between John’s legs.

John’s need grew stronger.

“Sherlock.”

“Just a bit more.” Sherlock turned off the taps.

“Sherlock.”

“Not quite clean enough, my Omega.” The flannel was pushing, probing slightly. “Just a few more touches.”

“Sherlock!”

“All right,” said Sherlock, far too placatingly. “Let’s get you dry.”

“I’m not a child!” John snapped as Sherlock wrapped him in an enormous terrycloth towel. “Sod the towel!”

“That’s not on the list, John,” said Sherlock in the tone of nannies everywhere.

“ARRGH!”

John shoved Sherlock out of the loo and down on the bed.

When Sherlock fell back onto the mattress, he made a satisfying bounce.

John crawled toward him, then atop him, then he quickly impaled himself on Sherlock’s erect prick.

Both groaned as John sank down.

John held it for a moment and just breathed.

God, he loved this position.

Sherlock pushed up; John rolled his hips.

The cameras might have descended, but John didn’t notice. He was focused on using his internal muscles to squeeze Sherlock’s prick like a python.

“Fuck!” exhaled Sherlock, his head thrown back, his face contorted, his eyes pinched. His hands were gripping John’s hips; the hold tightened.

Good. John hoped they got a shot of that. The Omega wasn’t the only one getting fucked.

John relaxed and let Sherlock bounce him, sharp, quick jerks as if John were truly in the saddle of a bucking bronco.

Sherlock kept up the pace for a while, until they were both sweating, but then he slowed.

And John squeezed again. And again. With every slow, deep thrust.

“Who’s riding whom?” he growled.

“You!” squeaked Sherlock. “You, bloody hell, you! God, John!” He thrust up, just once, but so hard that if not for the hands that were keeping him in place, John might have been launched off the whole bed as well as Sherlock’s prick.

But as it was, John was slammed into with the force of a freight train.

Sherlock’s long, low moan told John he was finding his release.

“We’re not done,” said John in his battlefield voice. He felt Sherlock’s full-body shiver as he lifted off. Then he grasped the lower half of Sherlock’s face in one hand and held it still. “I want another ride, my stallion. Think you can get it right back up for me, Machine?”

“You better believe I can,” hissed Sherlock. “The Fucking Machine never rests.”

It wasn’t hyperbole. In the moments it took John to rearrange himself, Sherlock’s prick was hard again.

And then John was riding it again.

This time, he was facing away from Sherlock and lifting himself off the bed, knees bent, one arm down, tenting his body backwards atop Sherlock’s, their only connection the big, fat, greedy prick that was spearing him over and over.

The position required a flexibility and strength that would, in normal circumstances, be beyond John, but with the pheromones raging, he was able to turn his body into a human bridge, and hold it, until Sherlock found his release.

But, as good as the prick fell, spreading him, filling him, again and again, this wasn’t about Sherlock’s release.

This was about John’s.

One hand was down, bearing part of his weight, but the other was stroking his own prick.

“I’m going to want a copy of this one,” murmured Sherlock. “Oh, God, John. You look, you look…”

Good enough to make an Alpha who’d seen everything speechless? Perfect.

“Oh, John.”

“Yeah,” agreed John as his own spurts decorated his belly and chest and Sherlock’s wet heat flooded his cunt once more. He squeezed, milking Sherlock’s prick.

“Oh, fuck, John, more, coming again, shit!”

A grin split John’s face in half.

Then he opened his eyes and watched the cameras rise and vanish back into the ceiling.

He sighed and slowly extricated himself from Sherlock, then flopped onto the other side of the bed.

“I thought with this position you’d be self-conscious, what with the cameras in your face, so I purposefully goaded you in there.” Sherlock nodded toward the loo. “But I needn’t have worried.”

“Oh, Sherlock!” sighed John. He snuggled close.

They kissed.

“I meant what I said, John. I want a photo of that.” Sherlock was licking John’s neck. “I’ll wank to it when you’re at the surgery.”

John smiled. Then he yawned. “Kip?”

“Yeah, I’ll clean us up,” said Sherlock, easing from the bed and tapping the screen.

“Then I suppose you can show them how you fuck an Omega in their sleep.”

“And tethering?”

“And tethering.”


	4. Afternoon Delight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock try out the wall apparatus.
> 
> For Kinktober Day 18: Fucking Machine.

Sherlock was panting loudly and perspiring freely.

So was John.

Sherlock leaned forward and, obeying feral instinct, licked a salty rivulet making its way down John’s face from jaw to temple.

Over the years, Sherlock had willingly introduced into his body many illicit substances, but the high he got from John’s sweat was like none other.

A moment prior, he would not have thought it possible to fuck John any harder, any deeper, than he was, but somewhere inside him, spurred by a few drops of pheromone-laced saline, the Alpha rose to the challenge.

And fucked the Omega harder.

“Oh, oh.”

John was beyond coherent speech. He’d been whimpering until Sherlock’s last burst of vigour. Now he exhaled surprised puffs of ragged breath as Sherlock pounded him.

Despite the frenzy, the protective Alpha instinct hadn’t waivered.

Sherlock was still holding John, just in case he fell or, better put, just in case he lost his grip on the two handles he was holding, the ones above his head attached to the wall with a bar between them.

John’s legs were hooked over Sherlock’s shoulders, his body folded practically in half.

Sherlock was standing and slamming John against the wall.

Suddenly, John’s expression hardened. “C’mon, Machine!”

He and John used the nickname jokingly all the time, but it wasn’t often that Sherlock truly felt like a fucking machine with John.

John never let him forget how human he was.

This, however, was an exception.

Sherlock slowed just long enough to give John a raw, demanding kiss, more bite than press of lips, then he pulled out and rammed back into John’s cunt with all the force the Alpha could harness.

And, mercifully, Sherlock came.

“Oooh!” John’s head flew back, hitting the wall. He drew the long, hollow syllable out as Sherlock’s prick spat stream after stream inside him. The orgasm seemed to go on, forever. Coming and coming and coming. Releasing all the energy that'd been building up.

And then Sherlock was spent. And half-drunk on it.

“Easy, easy,” he chanted to himself as well as John as he gently brought John’s legs down until they wrapped ‘round his waist.

“I’m gonna let go,” warned John.

“Go ahead. I’ve got you.”

Such an Alpha thing to say, but so right, it made Sherlock’s prick twitch, just once, again.

John felt it.

“Sherlock?!”

“It’s okay. I’m done for now. Let go, John.”

When John let go of the handles, his lower body sagged, and his upper body, limbs and torso, fell flat against Sherlock’s own.

Both bodies were dripping from head to toe with rapidly-cooling sweat.

“Oh, Christ, we’re a mess,” groaned John.

Sherlock agreed, but the Alpha was thrilled. He’d fucked his Omega with dominating power, with claiming force. He didn’t need a bed. He was so Alpha could fold his Omega against the wall and make him beg and whimper. Fill him and fuck him and leave him soaked and satisfied.

Sherlock quashed a roar of pride as he carried John to the bed. He laid John down carefully and pulled out of him even more carefully.

“Towels,” he said, heading for the linen closet.

“Come back,” begged John, trying to sit up. Then he made an audible noise of self-reproach.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” said Sherlock. He quickly returned with the towels and began drying himself and John.

“Okay?” he asked as he dabbed very gently between John’s legs.

John flopped back onto the bed, sighing. “If I had even half the strength and flexibility outside of heat…”

Sherlock chuckled and nodded. He caught John’s half-focused, well-fucked gaze, and his pride swelled once more.

“You were brutal,” said John with undisguised admiration. “A real fucking machine. It was wonderful.”

“I endeavour to give satisfaction,” replied Sherlock with mock formality. “And we can cross out another item on our list.”

“Yeah,” said John, his eyes returning to the handles. “Using the wall apparatus.”

“We jumped the queue at bit,” remarked Sherlock.

“Yeah, but that was because of the other item we struck off the list. I mean, I wouldn’t have begged you to pound me into the wall if you hadn’t, you know…”

“Fucked you in your sleep?”


	5. Spooning.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John watches himself get fucked while he gets fucked. Fun! Sex while sleeping.
> 
> For Kinktober Day 16: Body Worship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tethering is something I invented in the first fic in this series The Fucking Machine because I wanted the lads to hold hands more :)

** _Earlier…_ **

John woke to the familiar rub of a warm, wet flannel between his legs. He shifted his hand and realised his fingers were laced in Sherlock’s.

He smiled. “Second round started without me?”

Sherlock hummed, then amended, “Not quite.”

John heard the thump of something wet hitting the bottom of laundry bin, then felt the return of Sherlock’s body warmth. “Did they get their shots?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Sherlock coldly.

“Sherlock.”

“Of all that was asked of us, John, the part I objected to most was this. To purposefully distress you for the sake of illustrating the effects of tethering.” He snorted than raised their joined hands and kissed John’s knuckles.

“But for, what, twenty seconds? And I was asleep, before, during, and after! The distress was minimal, Sherlock.”

“I don’t care. Neither does the Alpha.”

“Well, I didn’t mind. I don’t think it even registered in my Omega subconscious.”

Sherlock sighed. “No, you slept through it all.”

John chuckled. “I suppose when you have a biological imperative like mine…”

“I do!” protested Sherlock.

“Not one you can sleep through, Alpha,” argued John.

“True.” Sherlock licked at the ridge of John’s shoulder.

“And tethering is important. I mean, to the rest of the world, it’s just holding hands, but to an Omega who is genuinely out of their mind with terror about what their body is demanding, it’s a lifeline. And no matter how many heats I’ve survived, that moment of helplessness always arrives, Sherlock. That’s why it’s important to have a competent Alpha about the place.”

Sherlock covered the full length of John’s body with his own and pressed him into the mattress.

They remained like that for a few minutes until John shrugged, and Sherlock rolled to one side.

“I filmed it. Or rather, I temporarily commandeered a feed from one of our peeping spiders and recorded it, the part after I distressed you unnecessarily.”

John twisted sharply, looking behind him. “You filmed you fucking me in my sleep?!”

Sherlock grunted and kissed John’s cheek. “Biological imperative or not, I don’t like taking blind, wholesale advantage of your person, John, but it’s your decision if you want to watch it or not.” He nuzzled behind John’s ear. “We could move on.”

“Fuck yeah, I want to watch it. Now.”

Sherlock snorted and reached over John and tapped the table attached to the bedside table. “All we’ve got is a small screen, I’m afraid.”

“That’ll do.”

* * *

Pleasure was, John discovered, like cake: even better when it was layered.

His was a three-layered pleasure.

One, on a small screen, he was watching an Alpha worship his body. Two, in ways he didn’t quite understand but could instantly recognise, his body, and his subconscious mind, were remembering the worshipping. And, three, Sherlock was there, repeating, in part, the worshipping because, naturally, John’s body was on fire from the first two layers and sending up the pheromonal equivalent of ‘Fuck Me Now’ smoke signals.

The Sherlock of the small screen was kissing John’s neck with a tenderness that John rarely got to see for himself, though he felt it and sensed it often enough, and John’s skin was remembering the gentle touch of those lips and the brush of that wet tongue as it licked at the bond spot over and over like a mother cat cleaning her kitten.

Sherlock’s mouth was on John, too, as he watched, kissing, licking.

Reassuring.

John reached an arm back and held Sherlock’s head right where he wanted it, right on the side of his neck. Sherlock obliged by sucking what would probably become a royal bruise by the time the heat finally lifted.

A wave of satisfaction washed over the John of the small screen’s face, and his lips puckered slightly as if they wanted to kiss something.

“What?” asked John for the image was of John’s head, neck, and shoulder, and no lower.

“Nipple,” murmured Sherlock into John’s skin, snaking his hand ‘round to replicate.

John hummed and arched into Sherlock’s toying in the exact manner of his on-screen doppelganger. Then Sherlock released his nipple and slid his hand down to John’s prick, then around to his buttock and thigh.

John bent his knee, and Sherlock raised John’s leg.

On the screen, the camera stayed with John’s sleeping face as Sherlock’s head disappeared.

“Kissing down your spine,” said Sherlock.

John’s skin tingled at the memory. Yes, that was what had happened. And then Sherlock had…

“Oh, God.”

“Yes.”

“I’m loving it, Sherlock. Just look at my face.”

“Other signs pointed to that conclusion, too, but it is nice to have confirmation.”

“Your tongue was in me, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“For a long time,” said John, his voice rising. It wasn’t a question.

“A very long time. I wanted you to be absolutely mad for it before I…”

John couldn’t take it anymore. He closed his eyes. “Sherlock, mount me!”

The enormous prick pushed in, stretching John, making him sigh, “Fuck me while you rim him.”

Sherlock shifted his body and began to thrust slow and deep.

After a while, he said,

“Watch, John.”

John had quite forgot that his eyes were closed.

“What’s…?”

“Thighs, knees, balls.”

“Oof. The last, Sherlock.”

“Yeah?” He kept up his thrusting.

“Yeah. Still feeling it.” John pushed a hand beneath his body and cupped himself. “You were under there a long time.”

“Worth it.”

Sherlock adjusted his angle.

“Oh, Christ!” cried John. “Don’t stop!”

“There?” Sherlock pulled out and shoved back in.

John heard two whimpers, both his. “Right there!” he squeaked. “Pound it!”

“Watch!” urged Sherlock—quite unnecessarily, John wouldn’t have stopped watching for anything. His raptured expression, Sherlock’s nude torso, the jerking of his body in response to Sherlock’s thrusts, it was the most perfect pornography in the entire world.

“Oh, God, you’re fucking me. I’m still asleep, and you’re fucking me!” chanted John as Sherlock fucked him.

“I’m going to suck you off, too, John. Just wait a minute.”

And suddenly John knew that to be true, too.

He’d been rolled on his back and sucked off.

“Now, too?” prompted Sherlock, the strain in his voice telling John he was close. “Do you want me to suck you off after I come?”

“No, I want to watch.”

Sherlock chuckled and grunted.

And while Sherlock was pumping his seed into John, John’s attention was riveted to the screen, watching his body being gently turned, a huge grin plastered on his sleeping face.

“You’re so good to me, Sherlock,” John groaned as Sherlock pulled out with a loud, wet noise. “Christ, you filled me up good this time, didn’t you?”

“I liked watching, too,” confessed Sherlock. “Your face.” He kissed John’s cheek. “I love making you that happy.”

John felt the swipe of a tongue along his knuckles, and he looked over and realised through it all their hands had remained joined, fingers twined.

“That’s the magic of tethering,” observed John. “That’s how I knew it was you and how I knew I was safe the whole time.” He released Sherlock’s hand and curled both arms ‘round his neck and kissed his lips.

“God, Sherlock, I want you again. How ‘bout we use the hanging thing?”


	6. Bodyguard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock likes the size difference. Hand-job. Oral. Short chapter.
> 
> For 2019 Kinktober: Day 23: Size Difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you aren't convinced that Sherlock and John (using Cumberbatch and Freeman as our models) could pull this one off in the way I describe, you aren't alone. I don't think I've convinced myself. I think the size difference would be a bit much, require more bending, but I saw a nice visual for this and thought I'd give it a go. 
> 
> So the plan is to finish up by Thursday (the end of Kinktober) so the next few chapter may be on the short side. And in case anyone is wondering, I use the VERY NSFW!! [Gay Sex Positions](https://gaysexpositionsguide.com/) as my guide, even though technically it isn't anal penetration and the blokes in the guide are ripped like curtains. I'm trying to dig my way out of a dark mood so it may be extra floofy, too. Hopefully the balls-to-the-wall muse will come back. Cheers.

They sat on the bed, facing each other, their pricks together and their hands wrapped ‘round the collective, stroking.

John’s eyes closed. His shoulders relaxed.

Sherlock smiled.

There wasn’t a trace of self-consciousness on John’s face. He was simply enjoying, as Sherlock was, the sliding of their slicked members and the pulsing pressure of their curled fingers.

When Sherlock had been a stud at the Farm, he wouldn’t have even dreamt of doing this with an Omega. The reminder of the difference in prick sizes wasn’t one that most Omegas would welcome, especially in heat.

Sherlock squeezed at the base of John’s prick. John’s head tilted to one side and his jaw dropped in a silent moan, and he reciprocated the gesture on Sherlock’s prick.

Sherlock grunted. John hummed.

“I love your prick, John.”

A fleeting embarrassment washed over Sherlock. He’d said it in the same heat-strained, breathless tone that Omegas used with him when they said it.

The irony wasn’t lost on John. He didn’t open his eyes, or slow his hands, but he did grin and say, cheekily,

“That’s what all the Alphas say.”

“I bet.” Sherlock smirked. “I can put the whole thing in my mouth, suck you off, swallow, just like that.”

“I’d hurt myself if I tried it on you. About half is all I can manage.”

“It’s all right.”

And it was.

John licked his lips. “It’s cliché and trite and you’ve heard it a thousand times before.”

“Hundreds, not thousands, John, but say it anyway.”

“When you fuck me, you stretch me and fill me and, Christ…”

The rhythm of their hands was breaking down, John slowing, becoming clumsy, irregular.

“Say it, John.”

“Hit that spot, that spot, Sherlock, deep inside me…oh, God, could you, please…”

“Say it!”

“Fuck me, Sherlock, now!”

“Stand up!”

Sherlock slotted behind John, lifting him slightly off the ground and impaling him on his own very-ready prick.

John was like a doll, one that Sherlock held fast to the front of him and fucked. He caressed John’s side and his thigh, up and down, up and down, as they moved together.

“Like that, John? Nice fat prick.”

“Nicest. Fattest. Oh, God, Sherlock. Right there.”

John twisted at the waist until he was able to reach back and curl his arm around Sherlock’s head and bright his lips to Sherlock’s.

“We’re the perfect size, aren’t we? For this, I mean?” he said, gasping and panting.

“We’re the perfect size for everything, John. It’s quite extraordinary.”

At some point, the cameras had come down.

Sherlock hadn’t noticed them until he and John had once more established a rhythm, standing together and fucking together.

Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

“I’m coming, John,” Sherlock murmured, quite unnecessarily into John’s mouth, but since they both seemed to be reading from the same, well-worn script, he thought it appropriate.

“Yeah, yeah, come on, big boy, I’m ready for you. Then I want you on your knees.”

“Oh, God, yes.” The suggestion was enough to send Sherlock over the edge.

He came, then, as ordered, fell to his knees and sucked John off.

John’s eyelids flickered as the camera rose and retreated. “What? They don’t want a shot of me fucking your mouth, Sherlock? Conventional bastards.”

Sherlock pulled off long enough to say, “Their loss.”

“Damn right.”

Sherlock buried a single wriggling index finger up John’s arse while John held his head and thrust into his mouth.

And when John had spent, and Sherlock removed his digit from John’s arse, John looked down in said,

“Let’s have a sit now.”


	7. Lap Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John lapdances.
> 
> So I did some Important Research into lap dance songs and the song I selected for this is [How Do You Want It](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uA13uMi9Hp0) by 2Pac with K-Ci and JoJo (1996).
> 
> For Kinktober 2019: Day 24: Lapdances.

Sherlock had no idea, well, very little idea, of what song was playing in John’s head.

But he didn’t care.

Whatever it was, it was making John roll his hips and writhe and twist in ways that shut off Sherlock’s supercomputer brain and made the Alpha consider slipping large sum notes in John’s non-existent G string.

Really, Sherlock thought, he should know better. He once confessed to John that he, Sherlock, would never get John’s limits, and it was still true. It would always be true. Sherlock loved puzzles, and at this moment, John Watson was the sexiest puzzle on the fucking planet.

Sherlock was seated, his hands resting tentatively on the chair arms, in the barely contained state of persons all the world over getting lapdances.

And John was dancing.

And, _fuck_, was he dancing.

Sherlock was hard. He’d been hard. But he didn’t care about that, either.

All that mattered was John’s arse and his hips and the way he was swaying and wriggling and…

John paused and looked over his shoulder.

He laughed, and Sherlock didn’t blame him. He knew his face bore the stupid, mesmerised expression of every person who’d ever been in his position.

The incredible part was he, Sherlock, got to fuck this beautiful creature, and very soon, if the secretions running down John’s thighs were any indication.

John was humming and flicking his head from side to side and squeezing his glutes in a way that made Sherlock want to squeeze them, too.

And really, the muscles of John’s arse were a crime.

Then John began to roll his hips again, undulating in a way that made Sherlock want to cry, and lowering himself, finally, finally, onto Sherlock’s prick.

Oh, despite all evidence to the contrary, Sherlock must’ve been a very good boy at some point in his life to deserve this.

John was bouncing his way down, impaling himself.

Beads of sweat rolled down John’s back. Sherlock leaned forward and licked them with the tip of his tongue, hoping against all hope, that touching John, even slightly, wouldn’t break the spell of whatever was going on here.

It didn’t, but when John put his hands atop of Sherlock’s and held them fast to the chair arm, Sherlock got the message.

‘Let me do it. Let fuck myself on you.’

Sherlock was more than willing to be John’s toy.

Whatever he needed. Whatever made him feel good.

Fuck, John was still dancing. He was sliding himself up and down on Sherlock’s prick and bending deep and rolling his shoulders and ruffling his own hair and caressing his own chest and…

“FUCK!”

Sherlock’s prick exploded, and his hands flew to John’s waist gripping him tight to prevent him from flying off.

With the sheer force of his orgasm as propellant, Sherlock’s lizard brain worried, John might twerk to the moon!

John collapsed with a loud exhale and leaned back, his sweat-damp skin adhering to Sherlock’s.

“Better than textbook,” said Sherlock and kissed his neck.


	8. Bully & Superman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock shows off his pheromone-induced Alpha strength. 
> 
> For Kinktober Day 27: Against a Wall.

“My strong Alpha.”

John knew his tone, a breathy, coquettish falsetto, and his words, straight from a bad porn film script, were absurd.

But this was the absurd part of the show.

The third act of the heat was the part where John was out of his mind from all that he’d just done and all that his body still craved.

He sat in Sherlock’s lap, facing him, cradling Sherlock’s head in his hands.

“There’s your big brain,” John kissed Sherlock’s perfect lips, “and your big prick,” John kissed each cheekbone, “but there’s so much more, in-between.”

Sherlock simply grunted and squeezed John’s arse, signaling that he, too, was beginning to feel the strain of things.

John kissed tiny, wet kisses down the column of Sherlock’s neck and along the ride of each shoulder, stopping to suck over Sherlock’s bond gland.

“My Alpha, my Alpha. No one else. No one else for my heats ever again. Just you. To think of what I went through before I met you…” John shuddered at the memories.

“Don’t think of that,” murmured Sherlock. “Just me now. Just your Alpha.”

“My strong Alpha.”

John’s fingertips were tracing the valleys and swells of Sherlock’s arm muscles, then moving across his chest, outlining Sherlock’s pectorals. Even without the boost of the heat pheromones, Sherlock had a lean strength that was not always readily observed through the bespoke suits he always wore.

“So strong,” repeated John, then he curled his legs in and slid down, licking and tasting and savouring as he went. He suckled Sherlock’s nipples and then buried his face in Sherlock’s belly, ignoring, for the time being, the prickhead not far from his chin. He did, however, take a few slow, deep breaths.

Sex. Nothing but sex.

“And love,” he said aloud. He looked up and smiled. “Nothing but sex and love in the air.”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Love,” he echoed. “So much, John. More than I can say.”

John kissed around Sherlock’s prick, up and down his inner thighs, and massaged his calves and tickled the back of his knees, then he rose up and looked Sherlock directly in the eye.

And Sherlock, being Sherlock, answered John’s thought before John even had a chance to put voice to words.

“Anything, John, absolutely anything. Anything out of that pretty mouth of yours.”

Christ, he was gone, thought John. He was the one with the pretty mouth, not John.

Nevertheless, John threw himself forward, slamming his chest into Sherlock’s with violence, and bending his head to whisper in Sherlock’s ear.

“I need…”

John hesitated. Man warred silently against Omega for a few moments.

Sherlock’s arms went ‘round John and held him, and there was a reassuring nuzzle of the side of Sherlock’s face against John’s own.

“Satisfy you,” said Sherlock. “Give you what you want. Anything.” He bit at John’s cheek. “Tell me.”

“…the Omega needs his big, strong Alpha to fuck him, fuck him like a doll.”

As soon as the words were out, it was like surrender. John felt the Omega claiming the better part of him.

But then, everything got a bit confused for Omega and man because Sherlock was lifting John up and turning the chair ‘round and folding John like paper until John’s knees balanced on the back of the chair.

The penny dropped the moment before it happened.

Then Sherlock jammed his prick into John’s cunt, brought his arms under John’s, and stepped back until they reached the wall.

And then he…no, not Sherlock, because John instinctively knew that the feral noise heard in the room had very little to do with the world’s only consulting detective…then the Alpha _roared_.

And bounced John on his prick as if John were weightless, nothing more than an inflatable plaything with the right-shaped hole, perfect for fucking, for using, for satisfying a hungry prick.

John curled his legs back around Sherlock’s waist but could manage nothing with his pinned arms.

He was at Sherlock’s mercy, impaled on Sherlock prick.

Surrender. Utter surrender.

The Omega rejoiced.

John felt the last vestiges of himself slide into oblivion. He heard whimpers and pleas and mewls that might have been his own mixed with grunts and snorts and curses that might have been Sherlock’s.

The Omega let himself be used and reveled in the using.

Sherlock fucked him, then laid him gently on the bed, untangling their bodies, then, strangely, or so John thought at the time, led him back to the wall and the bar with the handles.

“Hold on,” ordered the Alpha, “tight.”

And the Omega did.

And then legs were being lifted off the ground and spread and a body slotted between them and a cunt filled once more.

“Oh!”

“Don’t let go.”

No, he wouldn’t let go. He would hold on tight and fly like fucking Superman.

* * *

After a thorough wash and a change of bed linen, they were snuggled together on the bed, John struggling to stay awake.

There was a beep, and Sherlock reached an arm out and snorted.

“What?” asked John sleepily.

“Stanford said that he only wanted one feat of superior heat-induced Alpha strength, but since we gave him two as well as an example of superior heat-induced Omega flexibility, he's crossing number nine off the list. So, just one more to go.” Sherlock chuckled. “What a perv!”

John smiled and fell asleep.


	9. Mastery.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the chair. Oral. Schmoop.
> 
> For Kinktober 2019: Day 30: Gagging.

“They ought to get a shot of this,” observed Sherlock, looking down. “Might save a lot of discomfort.” He added with a grimace, “The horror! Gagging.”

He was seated once more in the chair with his hands curled behind his head.

John was on the floor, kneeling in the V of Sherlock’s open legs, stroking the lower half of Sherlock’s prick and suckling the upper half. John did both well, and Sherlock’s body was, naturally, appreciating the attention and rising to the occasion, but…

…Sherlock didn’t_ like_ John on his knees before his prick.

It seemed rather, well, cartoonish.

“Don’t take too much,” he cautioned.

John pulled off and looked up. “That’s not in the script at all.”

Sherlock shrugged, then sighed. “Well, if you must, ‘Choke on it, Omega!’ Feel better?”

“Loads. Thanks.” John’s eyes seemed to dance about Sherlock’s face, then he said, “How ‘bout this?”

He dipped out of sight, and Sherlock felt a tongue lick the edge of one of his balls.

Sherlock slid further out of the chair, giving the tongue more range. “Now that…is quite nice.” He leaned back and noticed the cameras weren’t down yet. He closed his eyes.

They weren’t at the end yet, but they were getting there. He could feel the grip of the pheromones beginning to relax, and if he felt it, he knew that John felt it, too.

Sherlock’s experience as an Alpha stud at the Farm had taught him that this was the time when Omegas were inclined to be, for lack of a better term, over-solicitous.

But Sherlock didn’t especially _want_ gratitude.

“Rim you?” asked John.

The question pierced Sherlock’s woolgathering.

“No,” he said, then schooling his voice in its most gentle tone, ordered, “Stand up, please.”

John leapt to his feet like the soldier he was.

Sherlock stood, too. “You first,” he said, gesturing to the chair. “Face me.”

John sat.

Sherlock carefully slid himself down and forward, lifting John slightly with his own arms curled under John’s knees. He slid his prick into John’s cunt. Then, holding onto the back of the chair, they could stay curled together, kissing, while Sherlock controlled the thrusting, both the angle and the speed. Not knowing exactly when the heat cloud would lift, he wanted to hit that spot of John’s over and over, relentlessly.

John squeezed ‘round his prick.

“You’re welcome,” whispered Sherlock, brushing his lips to John’s temple. “It is, it is always, my pleasure to serve you.”

The cameras were down.

Mastery.

That was the name the textbook gave the position, unless Stamford had come up with some dry academic phrase that sounded like the last thing anyone would ever want to do, but Sherlock really couldn’t say who was mastering whom in this. He was kissing John and fucking John and making John whimper his name and cling to him and beg him not to stop. And he was telling John, yes, he, Sherlock Holmes, cold, calculating, thinking machine, was telling John just how much he loved him.

In those word. In those _very_ words.

But Sherlock’s next words were back to business.

“Get yourself off. Come all over me. Rub it into me.”

“Scent you?”

“Yeah,” said Sherlock, trying not to plead and failing, “I need it. I need my Omega’s scent on me.”

Of course, John obliged

And then Sherlock was coming. “Feel that?” he said hoarsely. “Me wanting you and needing you that much, that much, that much.” He jerked up into John.

“Stop talking rot and kiss me, you garden hose.”

Maybe, thought Sherlock, love was mastering them both.


	10. The end.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lads have a hard time with good-bye. Anal.
> 
> For Kinktober Day 25:Olfactophilila (Scent)
> 
> A big Happy Hallowe'en to all who enjoy it and a huge Fucking-Machine-sized thank you to all the kind readers who've read and commented and kept me going throughout this fabulous Kinktober! And I have no idea how I'm going to top (heh, heh) it next year, but let's hope the porn muse is generous!

“I feel like shaving,” said Sherlock, rubbing his stubbly jaw.

John nodded and picked at the bedclothes. “Not a bad idea…”

Sherlock turned sharply in the doorway of the bathroom. John lifted his gaze.

Their eyes met.

And just like that, the scent in the air changed or, perhaps, ‘left’ was the apt term.

It was as if someone had opened a window and let all the sex in the room out.

“Well,” said John.

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock with a twitch of a nervous smile. “Um, I suppose I should still, uh…” He gestured toward the interior of the bathroom behind him.

“Yeah, shave,” insisted John with a wave. “Maybe I’ll shower. Or I suppose I could wait until we get home.”

He looked about the bed without knowing precisely what he was looking for.

Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom.

John sat.

Pack? Not much to pack.

John looked down at himself. His body seemed sort of hairy and crumpled.

Disheveled. And nude.

Get dressed?

A feeling like an unpleasant cord wrapped around John’s chest and tightened.

He didn’t want to get dressed. He didn’t want to leave.

Strange, usually he was relieved when the heat was over, or at very least philosophical about it. Things getting back to normal. To everything a season, etcetera, etcetera, but, for some reason, this time, John didn’t want to go.

He sat and fretted until he heard the cough.

Sherlock stood in the threshold, one stripe of skin exposed in a beard of frothy shaving cream. His eyebrow was raised in a way that meant he wanted an explanation. Now.

This was their bond. Even without ever having bonded in the way that all Alphas and Omegas had bonded since the beginning of time, they had a link, an invisible connection.

Sherlock felt John’s distress. He said it felt like true illness and the more distressed John was, the graver the symptoms.

John hadn’t needed to tell Sherlock he was upset. Sherlock felt it as soon as John did.

“I’m okay,” said John. “Just a bit…” He waved both hands because he didn’t have the words or even their approximation. He looked at Sherlock helplessly, but said in as firm a voice he could manage,

“It’s all right. Finish. I like my detectives clean-shaven.”

Sherlock gave a nod, but his expression didn’t change. “I’m not worried about you at all,” he said, then he turned and withdrew into the bathroom.

John smiled and inhaled a curl of smoke, the equivalent of a single candle being snuffed out right beneath his nose.

Sherlock had uttered those words on purpose. He was playing with their bond, well, John’s half of it.

John was a human lie detector, but the only human whose lies he could detect was Sherlock.

They smelled like smoke. Cigarette smoke, pipe smoke, bonfires, blazes, depending on the circumstance.

John looked around him.

Why was he clinging to this? The memories of all they’d done and said flooded his mind like ghosts. He seemed to see the two of them everywhere at once: in the bed and against the wall and in the chair.

Fucking, fucking, fucking.

And now it was all gone.

But it wasn’t really, he was just imagining things.

“Sherlock?!”

John didn’t know what he was asking, but Sherlock was Sherlock.

“Hot shower.” Then there was the squeak of the taps.

Yes, hot shower, that sounded wonderful.

John sprang from the bed.

* * *

The water was just the way John liked it: as hot as the plumbing system allowed. Sherlock had closed the door, and the steam was building, a thick and warm and comforting fog.

John stretched and twisted and turned, allowing the spray to pelt every side of him. He even held his face to the centre of it.

His body, and his mind, finally relaxed.

He looked over at Sherlock through the glass door. He’d been hunched over the wash basin but now was standing tall and taking up the razor once more.

“I don’t know what happened, Sherlock.” John leaned forward and allowed the scalding water to cascade down his back. “I just wasn’t ready to let go.”

“Someone once said change is difficult,” said Sherlock, tapping the razor on the wash basin. “And the changes your body puts you through…”

“You, too,” said John.

“I change because you change. You’re the catalyst.”

“You could go into rut,” suggested John.

“Oh, the Loch Ness monster of secondary sex myths! Don’t you read Stamford’s blog?”

“I’m too busy writing my own.”

“Anyway, according the good doctor, change is tough so you should be gentle with yourself.”

John huffed.

“And if you won’t,” said Sherlock, rinsing his face, then drying it, “allow me.” He turned and beamed at John, who nodded approvingly at the bristle-free countenance.

“Turn off that water,” said Sherlock, glancing at the taps. “Not everyone enjoys being boiled like a chicken the way you do.”

John turned off the water and slid open the door.

Sherlock handed him a towel, and he stepped out.

Sherlock stepped into the shower and gave John a wink before closing the door and turning on the taps once more.

John began to dry himself. “I would’ve made space,” he remarked, offhandedly.

“I’d rather have a bit of privacy,” replied Sherlock over the water.

Well, that was understandable, thought John, given they’d not been more than arm’s length away from one another for most of the last three days. He wrapped the towel ‘round his waist. He should leave Sherlock to it…

“You know,” said Sherlock, “to get ready for that royal sodding my boyfriend’s going to give me when I get out.”

John blinked. Then he snorted. Then he smiled.

There was more than one way of getting back to normal.

* * *

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock,” breathed John as he watched his prick disappear inside Sherlock’s body, stretching his hole, being slowly, very slowly, enveloped in his tight heat. “You’re going to have to get yourself off, love, I’m too lost in this.”

John was behind Sherlock on the bed.

“Wait, John.”

Sherlock leaned. John leaned with him. Then they resumed their positions.

“It’s all right now,” said Sherlock. He shifted his weight on one side.

John pushed further in.

This was different.

John was in control.

Not the Omega, not the Alpha, not the biology of either.

He. John.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Sherlock. His body jerked with his own ministrations. “It’s not on the list. It’ll never be on any list, but, God, John…”

John bottomed out, and Sherlock groaned.

“…but you love taking up the arse like a little prickslut, don’t you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock whimpered.

John yanked his prick out abruptly. “What’s that?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and hissed, “I said that I am your fucking prickslut, John. Now put it back in me, please!”

“Oh, well, since you said ‘please.’”

John slowly sank back into Sherlock.

Sherlock exhaled.

John stilled. He rubbed Sherlock’s lower back. “All right?”

“Yes, for God’s sake, John, fuck me.”

“You didn't say ‘please.’”

“Please!”

John began thrusting slow and deep, driving Sherlock to the madness of cursing John aloud and lunging backwards in a clumsy attempt to speed up the pace.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“I love you, too, you bastard,” whined Sherlock. “But I’d love you just a little bit more if you—”

WHAM!

Sherlock didn’t speak anymore. Not even to call John’s name.

And John fucked him with all the violence his soft heart would allow.

And when they were both spent, John pulled out, and Sherlock rolled away from the wet spot.

“Hello, refractory period,” said John.

Something buzzed on the bedside table. Sherlock reached back and slapped it. “Silence! I’m not ready for cases yet.”

“Now, _that’s _a compliment,” said John. “Was that the royal sodding you were hoping for, my princess?”

Sherlock hummed. “Going to have trouble sitting tomorrow.”

“Unless I kiss it and make it better.”

“Or make it worse than ever!”

They laughed.

John laid on the bed on his side, facing Sherlock. After a long companionable silence, he said, tenderly,

“Hello, you.”

“Hello, yourself.”

John looked down Sherlock’s body. “You know, you’re fucking gorgeous.”

“So are you.”

He meant it. That was the amazing thing. John knew Sherlock was telling the truth because the Omega knew when the Alpha was lying. He shook his head in disbelief.

“Gotcha,” said Sherlock, grinning. “You can’t deny it.”

They settled back into happy silence, stroking each other’s face and petting each other’s hair and marveling at their own luck.

Then the lights in the room flickered.

“Is there a storm?” asked John, sitting up.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock rolled away from him. “We’ve been in complete seclusion for seventy-two hours.”

John caught sight of the trickle smeared along Sherlock’s thighs, and he could not resist drawing a finger through it and making an obscene wet noise as he licked the digit clean.

“John…”

In the next moment, John’s face was buried in the cleft of Sherlock’s arse.

“Oh, fuck, John!”

John pulled back and bit Sherlock’s buttock hard. “What do you want, prickslut?”

By the time that Sherlock replied, John was already doing it.

“Tongue-fuck my arse, John. Oh, please, your little prickslut’s gagging for it. Oh, fuck, John! Oh, oh, oh…”

All that could be heard for the next few minutes was Sherlock’s ragged breathing.

“Oh, fuck, John, I’m hard again. Can I have your cunt, please? Just once more.”

John pulled away. He leapt off the bed then propped one foot back on it.

“You want this?” he taunted, flashing his cunt at Sherlock and tracing the lips with his fingers.

“You know I do,” growled Sherlock, going to all fours and starting to crawl toward John.

“Then come and get it—OW! OW! OW!”

It was just then that water, angry cascades of icy cold water, began to rain down on them from above.

Sherlock grabbed John and their mobiles and bolted out the door as John raised his fist and cursed the ceiling.

“Bloody spiders! Fucking spitting spiders with your pervy eyes!”

It wasn’t until they were on their way home, in a private car whose upholstery they were ruining with their dripping forms, that they read the series of messages.

**Well done. You’ve met the terms of the contract, and payment has been wired to the associated accounts. Thank you for your valuable contributions to secondary sex studies. To expedite the discharge process, please make your way to the front desk in the next sixty minutes. M. Stamford.**

**Sherlock, I need the room. You’ve got thirty minutes. Mike.**

**Really, Sherlock? Get a room! In your own flat! If nobody’s in heat, nobody cares (despite what the monitoring team says, they’re all pervs)! Mike.**

**Five minutes or I’m turning the hoses on you. M.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
